Kiko Delivers

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Here’s the latest installment of Kiko’s Tale, and he’s back. Here he starts to think about his station as a messenger of greasy food.  I hope that this proto-resentment makes it logical that he would take a chance on another way of life.  I think that this sort of class analysis is universal, though I’ve sharpened mine with too much schooling.

And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

He resented the time it took him to stop at the security sign in and scrawl something that meant him, that meant Kiko, that meant the guy that brought the food, that meant, finally, nothing to the people who collected the signature. The Black or Puerto Rican guys who wore the uniforms didn’t care, the white guy behind the desk by the elevators didn’t care, and the secretary that collected it on the 4th floor, didn’t care and the person who ate it, who just left money with the woman at the desk on the 4th floor, definitely didn’t care.  But all of these people who didn’t care helped him to get in and out and earn money. 

As he walked out, counting the money he owed for the two deliveries he just made and separating his tip with change from another pocket, he realized that there was someone else who was putting Dave or Carlos and Mr. Eugene in between him and the office upstairs where the food went and the money came from.  La Señorita where the food went to in this office, though polite, looked through him and saw only Santiago’s well packed bag with lunch in it.  They were more interested, as a rule, that there was cardboard separating the hot from the cold and keeping the cups upright, than who the man delivering it was.  Si fuera yo que les interesa –if it was me that they were interested in, he thought– sean canibales.”

It’s just like I don’t care about them.  La oficina fuera –the office was, he racked his mind– law, accounting, private detectives, management; Kiko used to keep track, when he was new, but had learned the city way of not caring.  He focused on getting back for the three breakfasts that were waiting, at lunch time, to go to the loft above the locksmith on North Moore Street that used to be the garment factory.  There used to be those 20 Chinese ladies with sewing machines and now there were just the blond couple with the bikes on the ceiling who ate breakfast at mediodía.   Now only el jefe ordered lunch from la fabricante de vestidas, but there were so many more people then.  He was sad for la chinitas because he knew they had lost their job even though he knew that he should be happy because these two ordered much more food from Señora Choi’s restaurante. And they tipped really well in their proud laziness. 


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